Heavy Baggage
by La Flamingo
Summary: They’ve been sisters since their founding, but this doesn’t mean that when Gotham decides to bring some of her baggage to the Big Apple that New York will be pleased about it...[Batman SpiderMan Crossover]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The side-effects of the drug aren't really known by anyone outside the users and the creators. They call it the "Shadow" or the "Light" or–as a mixture of both–"Sight".

It varies where you're from. What you've seen. Those in the filthier side of town call it "Light", and those in the cleaner side of town call it "Shadow." Those in between don't have a name for it, because they don't understand the drug in all its power.

They're extremes--light and darkness. Ray and shadow.

The drug is the same way.

Those on the darker side of the spectrum are said to get a high unheard of from previous substances. There is a bizarre increase in the production of the hormone adrenaline and dopamine, one that almost depletes a healthy body of the ability to create said hormones for the rest of its existence.

The light side is also said to have an increase in muscle-tissue development.

A steroid/high/rush-inducer.

Never good.

It started in Gotham, down in the deep, dark bowels of the Narrows where no one would live willingly. Down in the dark abandoned subway tunnels, where rats and monsters lurk in the shadows and wait for prey.

Like all drugs, Sight started in a bad place.

But like all drugs, Sight wouldn't stay there.

Sight left Gotham. Slowly, but surely, the drug found its way onto trucks, into boats, into planes and even into bodies–living or dead–themselves. The substance dug its roots into the surrounding populace, and like a weed it only kept growing.

Some places proved more satisfactory for sustaining life than others. Chicago gave Sight a surprisingly chilly reception, as well as Detroit.

(The observation has been made that the Great Lakes area is not as open to Sight as Gotham–it is advisable to move to either a: the eastern seaboard, or b: the western seaboard of the United States)

No reports have been received of Sight in Los Angeles, therefore leading to the assumption that it has not yet reached that destination.

However, there have been words of a peculiar new drug borrowing itself into the population in heavily industrialized areas near New York City, Boston, and Philadelphia. Authorities have yet to learn of this substance, but it is gaining quick notoriety among the working/poorer classes as a unusual but superb way to escape reality.

Gotham created the Sight.

...unfortunately, she couldn't keep it to herself.

* * *

**Disclaimer: Spider-Man is property of Marvel Comics, created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko. Batman is property of DC Comics and was created by Bob Kane. I'm a kid who shouldn't have an internet access and a vivid imagination. **

**A/N: **I couldn't help it. I just saw the (bad) Spider-Man 3 movie, looked at my old stuff and knew that I had to do my first-ever crossover. This time, though, it isn't one of those kinda irritation WHO WIL WHIN MORTL KOMBAT?!?! type gigs but is more of a "partnership"/"your screw up, you fix it" type stories. I don't know how long this will be (and I still have to consider my "Bourne" story to continue, because my brain has gone dead), but as of now my muse is on a deadly rampage. And I'm not going to stop her.

So sit back, enjoy, or tell me how bad it is. I love reviews, I periodically need them to keep my sad, self-depreciating body alive and I'm curious to see the reception for this story, if there is any.


	2. Hudson Badlands

He had just been sitting down to watch television–one of the first times in over five months he'd been able to do so–when the phone rang. 

Peter considered his options. He looked at the clock, looked over at the muted t.v. screen and Rebecca Creel's silently-moving lips and then stared at his feet and the ugly wool socks that clothed them.

The truth was, Peter didn't answer the phone.

...unfortunately, the other truth was the phone didn't give a rat's ass whether he wanted to answer it or not.

Peter picked up the phone.

And listened.

* * *

His reluctance to respond to whatever was on the other side of the line is what brings him to us now, crouched on the decrepit old roof of a factory building down near the Hudson.

Peter doesn't want to be here, naturally believing that NYPD is capable enough to handle their city in all its enormity, but he also understands that there are some things New York's finest–irrelevant as to whether or not they are able–cannot deal with.

Primarily because big-wigs are getting their pockets lined.

Ah, corruption.

The Spider senses already told him that he was there, waiting, when Peter landed on the roof, so Peter doesn't bother acting surprised when he comes up next to him.

"See anything interesting?"

Peter glances over, eyebrow raised beneath his mask.

"A pun?"

The Daredevil smiles thinly at his fellow vigilante's barely disguised surprise and motions down at the warehouse doors.

"I thought you'd catch it."

The silence is comforting, and the two vigilantes relax in it momentarily.

It's Peter who finally makes the move. He coughs.

Daredevil moves an ear to the side, acknowledging.

"So how," Peter asks, "did you get the home phone?"

The smile beneath the mask grows wider, more real and for a moment loses the cynicism that it held before.

Matt Murdock–blind lawyer/vigilante extraordinare–grins."Your wife," he says, "is funny when she's pissed at _you._"

Ah.

Revenge of the spouse.

It hadn't been much beyond the guerre de nom, the usual "hang up the mask, Pete" from her and the "great responsibility" jabber from him, but it had–nevertheless–been a fight. Peter had _thought _he had won, but he forgot that M.J. has the tendency to be _very _determined when she wants to be.

She struck back. It wasn't the usual blanket in hand, "hello, you're sleeping on the couch tonight" exile for him, but something much worse. She used her vast knowledge of people and resources to get payback.

She gave another vigilante the home phone.

He'd be more worried about the 'secret identity' thing if the sad truth wasn't that it was bound to be found out, anyway. New Yorkers weren't stupid, and the vigilantes that graced the town were nothing short of brilliant. They'd put two and two together, figure out that the "see Parker take pictures, see Parker run, see Parker vanish" was in reality the Chinese Fire-drill routine of the Amazing Spiderman, as he jumped from the passenger seat of his life to the driver's seat and then ran all the way around again. No one was stupid. They knew who was who.

Which brings Peter to his next question.

"How'd she figure you out?" he asks.

Abruptly Daredevil loses the smile, and his voice becomes softer and more serious.

"One of her friends was a client of mine," he says.

Meaning...

"Oh."

The two shift again, and the comfortable silence between comrades suddenly vanishes.

Peter shoots a glance over at Daredevil.

Superheroes and vigilantes alike have a set of codes set about their life. Though they will work with one another when it needs to be done, at the heart of everything they are all territorial beasts, each set to their lives and their routines and their lands with a loyalty that follows to the death.

Peter is the only one who can bounces between boroughs when its needed and not get dinged for it. The others fight amongst themselves for their territory, each trying to push their belief into the system and therefore onto others.

The thought occurred to him the second he picked up the phone, but now Peter realizes that something wicked is afoot.

The reality is that he wouldn't be here unless something was going wrong in the badlands near the Hudson.

Peter clears his throat. The Daredevil gives the indication he's listening.

"Contrary to popular belief," Peter begins bluntly, "I'm not a taxi-service superhero." He turns and looks directly at Daredevil and then continues."Why did you call our house?"

The Daredevil doesn't speak for a moment, instead drumming his fingers on the concrete barrier of the roof, but then he coughs.

"Dealt with any freaks lately?" he asks, and then, at the ice-cold glare Peter gives him (the blind man can't read faces but silences sure as hell scream at him), adds, "besides the usual?"

Peter still stares at him warily, but he does answer.

"No."

Daredevil looks (okay, he gives the _illusion _of looking and it's close enough) over at him and the surprise doesn't even try to hide itself in his next question.

"Not even–"

"All the loonies are in their respective prisons," Peter says, irritated. "Muggers and various degenerates of our fair city have been being a real pain in the ass with the wonderful summer influx of tourists, but otherwise that's been it." He leans forward and becomes emphatic. "That's. Been. About. It."

Daredevil opens his mouth to retort, but then suddenly he goes stiff.

This is not coincidental and from instinct Peter knows that the prey they've been waiting for has arrived. He slowly moves to a position on the edge of the roof, feet balancing lightly on the concrete barrier, and to the left, a dull snap echoes as Daredevil unsheathes his billy club.

"Brace yourself," the blind man abruptly whispers, sensing something behind the walls of the old warehouse. "Because this is ugly."

Peter knows New York, but for a brief moment he thinks that Daredevil has to be kidding.

When the warehouse doors open a second later and the creatures within begin to leave, Pete knows that he's dangerously serious.

"Jesus." The words slip from his mouth before he can even stop them."What--what are they?"

Daredevil looks over and that thin, dry smile graces his face again.

"We call them the Sight."

* * *

**A/N: **Trust me, I KNOW this is a terrible beginning, but my original copy was eaten by a nefarious computer crash, and I had to start all over from scratch. Daredevil happened to jump in there entirely by accident.

I hope that for now all those enthralled--**P'tfami, alessandriana **and **Shonobi-Aquamarine--**are okay with the first chapter. Just bear with me now and it'll get moving. I promise.

Critiques, reviews, criticisms? I would love to hear them.


	3. Stakeout Failure

There's something incredibly irritating about a failed stakeout. 

He did his research, scared his drug dealers and listened to his informants and yet now, at the exact moment he _needs _all that work to coalesce into progress, it falls flat.

That shipment that is supposed to be at Dock 183n is gone.

And he doesn't have the faintest idea where it is.

As always, he partially blames himself for the failure...he should've been more sure that the information he was given was verifiable, should've checked more into the docking schedules and workers and the other nasty variables.

But then reality shakes him up.

He scares the shit out of people. The Bat scares the shit out of people.

When people are scared, they don't lie.

No, he muses (irritation is still there but it's slowly fading), this wasn't a matter of being duped. It was more of an issue where someone covered their bases and had a feeling the Bat would be coming.

Bruce would like to think that all criminals (regardless of age, occupation and brainpower) are cowardly, superstitious and dumb, but he knows that he's a Gothamite.

And Gothamites aren't stupid.

Usually.

"Any luck?" Barbara asks in his ear.

He digs his hands into the brick of the roof, pulling back the urge to throw himself down from the building and wreck havoc on the dock below before replying.

"No."

"Bad info?"

He shakes his head. "No. They just covered their tracks."

"They knew you were coming." It's not a question, but a statement.

"Yes."

A grunt of understanding comes from her, and Bruce suddenly wishes that Dick and him were on speaking terms, Barbara's legs were intact and that Tim wasn't busy with school.

They understood this, understood when something went wrong or someone thought a step ahead. Frustration and failure were never out of the question, and yet they continued to get back on their feet.

Except not with him. They are a part of the Batclan, but the family has fractured, splintering into different lives and separated from the city that brought them together in the first place. "To each their own" rings more true now than it did a decade ago, and Bruce suddenly feels a lot older.

"Do you want me to look up anything?" Barb asks.

He pauses, thinking.

"How many cameras are on the N docking stations?"

He hears the light tapping of keys in the background.

"Three."

"In working condition?"

She types faster now, and Bruce knows she's grinning. The girl may have lost her legs, but her spirit is far from dead.

"Oh, yeah."

"Location?"

"Gee, B," Barbara suddenly says, teasing, "you actually sound mildly interested."

He ignores the truth that he is. "Location?"

She mutters something (he hears "grumpy old geezer") but seconds later clears her throat. "East side, left of warehouse N20; southwest corner of Harper and 120th facing west; west side of warehouse N21 and, last but not least, lamp-post 57 residing right over Dock 183n."

"Facing west?"

She replies with mild irritation: "Where else?"

The news has heartened him considerably, and like the great shadow he is, the Bat rises from his perch above N21 and starts moving.

"And they're working?"He asks this again to be sure, because something just doesn't ring right with him.

More irritation from the Oracle, all-seeing and all-knowing. "Yes."

A jump from the warehouse to the roof of an abandoned three-story. He rolls, gets to his feet and starts moving towards the next building in the never ending hop-scotch from rooftop to rooftop.

"Can we get a view on lamp-post 57?"

She snorts. "Already done."

"And?"

The pause from Barbara's side of the line is much longer than previously. When she finally answers, he's already halfway back to the dock where he had started.

"Your last cargo left at 11:49 AM."

He had been told that the ship would be leaving at 3:00.

"Name of ship?"

Barbara sounds mildly rushed, but she keeps calm. "Gimme a minute, B..."

Three minutes later she's back.

"We have two choices: the _Medusa _and the _Osprey._"

Another jump, but as the Bat lands, he suddenly stops.

"Two choices?"

She coughs. "Well, the electronic roster had four ships docked this morning; one left at 8:15 AM for Chicago, the other went south for Detroit at 1:50 PM. The _Medusa _was recently decommissioned–turbine problems–and was just waiting to be towed off."

"And the _Osprey_?"

Beat. "Not much. I'm looking through the other piers and it seems that this bird is new."

"How new?"

"Two-weeks new."

Certainly suspicious, but he's not buying it. These bastards duped him once; they sure as hell could dupe him again.

The Bat starts moving again.

"When was the _Medusa _decomp'd?" he asks.

"One month, five days, six hours, twenty-nine minutes ago." Barbara replies.

"Any other reasons besides a turbine?"

She clucks once, obviously thinking, and in the background Bruce can hear the low drumming of her fingers on the edge of the keyboard. The quiet thrum of her scrolling makes itself heard.

Barbara hmms for a moment. "Umm...there are a few things. It's an old ship, the hull was apparently badly damaged when the crew tried to do some ice-busting in the winter, and apparently she had some leaking problems...which lead to a really bad rust problem."

"Do we have a captain?"

Suddenly the typing slows, and Barbara seems more frustrated than anything else at the turn of events. Her answer, brief as it may be, speaks volumes.

"Nope."

Even he's slightly incredulous. "None?"

"None." she responds. "I'm seeing funds transferred, the ship delivered and requesting boat-heaven, and then nothing. There _is _no said captain or owner on this roster."

"And the _Osprey?_"

Evaluating all possible angles won't kill him, though sometimes the Clan begs to disagree with him.

Pause. "I'll look up on it."

Bruce–contrary to popular belief–doesn't know women all that well. However, he's been around this one since she was a teenager and understands when Barbara Gordon needs some 'alone' time. She gave him the information he needed for the time being, he can handle it on his own, and the highest priority on Barbara's list right now is probably answering the phone call from her father.

So be it. The Bat is on his own again.

They give their usual good-byes--curt, brief and to the point--and then the line goes dead.

Bruce looks around.

And then realizes that he's back where he started, hidden in the shadows above Dock 183n with the thinnest of leads to keep him going.

So he tries to go back to where this problem started in the first place.

Two ships were supposed to be docked tonight.

Both are gone.

He has to admire the audacity of his opponent--the quick-thinking decision to send out decoys, allowing misinformation to trickle through the Narrows–but then Bruce remembers: smart his enemy may be, he has created a drug certain to ruin society from the bottom up.

He is a murderer and a thief, and must be treated as such.

_But where do you start?_

The logical Bat–the one not pissed off by failure–would go back to video cameras, informants and workers and start tracing the steps. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

Bruce is still logical, but he's pissed off, and that substantially changes how he's going to go about finding information. No patient back-tracking. No surprise visits to informants.

No waiting. This drug isn't staying still, and neither will he.

The Bat will get the facts he needs, but not by started back on block one.

No, there are more..._quick _ways of getting the job done. Simple, effective and gracefully efficient.

It's a shame that the smuck warily crossing out into the open of the Dock 183n didn't know that. Body held in a pseudo-crouch, head constantly swivelling and feet cautious, he only came to Bruce's focus when the shuffle of shitty sneakers made itself heard.

Now, however, he is most certainly the center of attention.

And not in a good way.

Bruce tells himself that _maybe it's just a drunk, _but then the Bat raises an eyebrow at him and snorts.

No one is found out in the piers near the Narrows after midnight.

And right now it's 2:37 AM.

It takes him all but five seconds to launch himself from the roof, shoot the grapple with the barely audible cough and swing downwards. The man below hearts that dry, silencer-like expulsion but by the time he spins around, hand in pocket the Bat screams _gun) _it's too late.

He finds himself bulldozed by a 240-pound monster, pulled back from the saving grace of the pier light and suddenly at the edge of the dock.

The Bat keeps his prey narrowly on the edge of the wood, forcing him to toe a narrow line between falling twelve feet into the freezing cold, merciless Gotham River or falling into the terrifying clutches of the Bat and then speaks.

"_Where"– _he puts particular emphasis on that word because it is the only reason he's still here --"is it?"

Eyes are wide, pulse is erratic and breathing is heavy...the Prey writhes wildly for no more than five seconds before he realizes the gravity of his situation.

And freezes.

"W-w-where's what?"

He's scared. Obviously. But if there's anything that speaks volumes, it's the fact that this guy didn't start shrieking the second he found himself flying. It's the fact that his fear is just resting beneath the surface.

The Bat evaluates.

Decoy, straggler, or bait. He can only be one of those three.

_Osprey _or _Medusa_, there can only be one of two.

Bruce gambles.

"_Medusa," _he snarls, "_where _is she?!?"

Prey swallows and considers his options.

And chooses the wrong one.

"I don't know what you're talking abo–"

He's heard it before, he knows the drill. The grip he had on the front of the man's jacket and the gentle shove over the Gotham (Exhibit A: this is what will happen if you _don't _talk) aren't going to work.

The Bat stares into the terrified eyes of the Prey and then shrugs, pushing on the man's chest just enough to make the man lose equilibrium...

And then letting go.

It's the scream that rips itself from the man's lips that is far more genuine than any of his words in the past two minutes were, and it's why–as the Prey starts falling, falling, falling– the man suddenly finds himself dangling from his feet only a meter above the Gotham River.

He _is _scared shitless now.

And he will talk.

Bruce waits for a minute, letting the man dangle by the rope and swing slowly to and fro before he peers over the edge of the dock.

"Medusa," he says, voice harsh. "I want to _know._"

Prey wildly tries to glance up from his upside-down position, causing the rope to buck and wind lazily.

"New York!" he shouts. "Please, for the love of God–"

"Where?" the Bat repeats the question, much to the chagrin of Bruce.

"New York City!" the Prey screams, legs wiggling madly in the rope. "She left for New York City!"

"And the cargo?"

Prey starts sobbing.

"Oh, Jesus–"

Bruce lets some slack on the rope. The one meter that the Prey had above the Gotham has shrinks to about half. Another scream from the dangling smuck.

"The cargo?"

"We're carrying Sight," the man says, voice hoarse. "Enough for, for–" he pauses for a moment, obviously trying to think, "–for the industry near Hudson. It's pre-production."

Shit. Pre-production. A new fleet of addicts under the influence of Sight. And in the first-stop city for cargo from Europe.

Bad. Very bad.

"Who's in charge at Hudson?"

Prey tries to look up. Bruce warns the Bat that he's pushing it–this man can't handle being upside down that long and not go unconscious–before looking back down.

"What?"

"Who's in charge at Hudson?"

"I–I don't know anything."

"Nothing?"

He shakes his head.

"Nothing. I was supposed to be the–"

"Straggler," the Bat finishes for him. "I know."

The Prey looks up one last time at the shadow before him before the world fades to oblivion.

The Bat pulls him up to the dock. He rolls up the rope, takes a step back and readjusts the grapple, aiming back towards the warehouse from which he had flown.

Two taps onto the transmitter. The scrambler hisses, clicks, and then it's Alfred–not Barbara–that's on the line.

"Yes, Master Bruce?" his voice is older, more weary but the dry humor that has kept the man afloat through most of his life is still there.

"I'm going to New York, Alfred."

"Very well, sir."

They both hang up. The Bat readjusts the grapple yet again and fires.

Aim, shoot, jump.

He repeats the process all the way back to the car.

* * *

**A/N: **Gee, can you tell which character I'm more comfortable with? I'm new to the Spiderman realm, and this thus makes me characterization of Peter Parker a little bit...stiff. I'll get the hang of it soon, it'll just take time. For all those who continue to read: thank you. The critiques of Spawn Guy, P'tfami and Shonobi-Aquamarine were especially helpful.

Enjoy. :)


	4. He's Old News

There are many things Peter has seen in his life that he wishes he never did. 

Uncle Ben dying on the pavement, blood like a sticky red carpet beneath him.

Gwen dying.

Mary-Jane; not dying but afraid, in danger.

People he got to too late.

Many photos that stick in the dusty file cabinets of the back of his brain stay there, under the greasy wax pen marking of "dying", but Peter's realizing that this new one is one of the few that strays away from the usual theme. It's made a new folder all for itself.

Peter saw the Sight last night.

And he wishes he didn't.

It's not...you know, the drug itself–hell, that's just an injection, wham, bam, thank you ma'am–but _how _those people moved afterwards that gave Pete the willies. It was...eerie. Something choppy and weird like the _Creature from the Black Lagoon. _

He hated that movie when he was a kid.

Now that he thinks about it–he _still _hates that movie...and he's turning thirty-one soon.

Peter blearily looks in the bathroom mirror and tells himself to focus, tells himself to grab a hold of the toothbrush (right–there!), put some toothpaste on it (but not too much, you dunce!) and brush his bones that break down stuff for him, but he's distracted.

Very, very, distracted.

A part of him wanted to get down there the second he saw them–the Sighted/Sight/Creepy-Druggies/Freaks–but Matt restrained him.

He finds it ironic now to have had Matt tell him to back off–the boy from Hell's Kitchen restraining the surburbanite of Queens–but at the time it had seemed anything but.

_"We have to wait," _Daredevil told him. "_We can't do this right now because we don't know anything. _I _don't know anything."_

The two had evaluated each other for a moment, and then Peter shot a look down at the creepy _things _(to which he didn't quite have a moniker that fit) and clenched his jaw.

"_What was this, then? Show-and-tell?" _

Daredevil gave the blind-man stare. "_No. This is a watch-and-learn time. Watch"–_and he pointed down with his cane at the masses below them–"_and learn._"

Peter watched. And then he realized.

They couldn't go down there...not yet, anyway.

Toothbrush bristles scrape the back of his jaw, tearing that area of gum and bone that he never _quite _manages to brush well and pulling him back to reality.

Peter's reflection stares blearily at him in the mirror. He makes a face.

Mondays aren't happy days.

Especially since Jameson happens to be in his prime at nine o'clock in the morning.

Alice says that he's not a morning person, but they both know that the truth is that Jameson's not a people person. Period.

The teeth are done. Peter looks down, spits into the sink and cleans it out. He nearly puts his brush back into the holder–M.J.'s not even here and he's still stuck on those rules–and shoots another glance in the mirror.

Peter Parker, thirty-one years old, engaged in a dispute of spouses, engaged in a Chinese-Fire Drill routine for the amazing Spider-Man and engaged in a life he doesn't quite know he wants, stares back at him.

M.J. suddenly sounds at the back of his head.

_Smile, Pete. _

He obliges.

* * *

He's gotten higher up in the Newspaper realm, and though Jameson is still the snarling editor from hell, Peter's not the nineteen-year-old who stumbled into the Daily Bugle looking for a job to buy a car.

Grudgingly, Jameson has accepted that.

"Parker!" he snarls as Pete slips through the office doors. Pete has gotten past the point of stopping in his tracks like a deer-in-the-headlights, but even now he stops abruptly and raises an eyebrow.

"Where are those photos of–"

_Slap. _Pete throws the manila on Jameson's desk and takes a step back.

"Eight shots, take your pick," he says.

Jameson glances down at the folder, then back up at Parker, then back down at the manila again. A second passes by of that rare-to-find silence before Jonah Jameson flips open the folder and glances at the pictures.

It only takes him a nanosecond to decide what he thinks of it.

"Crap." he announces, slapping the folder shut. "This is all crap."

Peter is used to this–this game the two must play in order for Peter to get the photos bought–so he goes along with it, shrugging and trying to act mildly indignant. "You told me that Spid–"

"Spider-Man?" Jameson snorts, waving a hand airily. "He's old news, buddy. Old news. The guy hasn't been doing anything for _weeks_."

Peter has to blink. He has to.

"W-w-what?"

The fact that Jonah Jameson thinks Spidey was old news seems blasphemous and almost...perverted.

Jameson raises an eyebrow. "What, do you think I'm kidding?" a spin in the chair, a quick standing to the feet. "Robbie gave me the numbers yesterday, and I'm beginning to realize we can only peg this guy for so long before people don't buy it anymore."

Like hell.Jameson's the Hearst of the century; 'You give me the photos, I'll start the war'.

"I mean, don't get me wrong–"and Jameson turns around with a cigar magically held in his right hand as the sentence-enhancer "–I hate that son of a bitch, but for now we're gonna try a different approach."

"Different approach?" The question spills from his lips before he even has time to muffle it

Jameson curls his lips. "Yeah. A different approach."

He takes the manila and contemptuously throws it behind his desk, aiming for the trash-can but missing.

"We have three big-wigs coming in today and tomorrow, Parker, and I want _you_–" the cigar serves as a deadly pointer, stabbing with quick efficiency in Peter's direction– "to be there. If Spidey won't come out and play, I'll have to pick on the usual suspects."

Ah. So he's not giving up on painting everyone as evil foes of the common man. He's just picking on a new victim.

Comforting. It _is _comforting.

Jameson hasn't entirely changed.

"Parker!"

The snarl, the glare from hell. Peter snaps back to attention.

"Yes?"

"Did you hear me? Wayne Industries is opening that new skyscraper down near Bowling Green."

So it's Wayne Industries. So they're a big company. There's something more here and they both know it.

"And?"

Jameson snorts and sticks the cigar in his mouth–unlit but surely chewed.

"I hate Gotham–can't stand that shithole–and don't like the fact that Wayne's reopening down here. The last thing we need is _another _outsider butting in."

Parker only went to Gotham once, but he wasn't too fond of it, either.

Wayne Industries?

Peter doesn't study the _Times _all that much, but from what he's heard it's not an entirely bad company.

But he's not Jonah Jameson, and Jameson thinks that everything is the anti-Christ.

So be it.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah." Jameson moves around the desk, picks up a sticky left randomly on the corner and hands it Peter. "Mary's sick, and I need someone to do her work for her today. Dabble in reporting. I need an interview done with this guy at two o'clock. Can you do that?"

Peter glances at the name, the place and the time and tries to catalogue backwards.

"Um..."

There's a look in his boss's eye that brooks for no argument.

"Yeah."

Clap on the back. Barely hidden wince on his part.

"Good kid, Parker. Good kid. Now get lost."

Peter does so quickly.

* * *

One part of Peter loves watching the Suits work their magic behind the microphone, armored in their Armani suits and Rolex watches while another part of him–the middle-class kid from Queens–watches on in disgust.

Right now behind the camera, though, that probably is all irrelevant.

Big-Wig #1–his white hair fluffed up in an almost mane-like arrangement–hits the podium and begins amid polite applause. Peter doesn't even listen to half the junk he says and after a while begins to zone out, focusing elsewhere and on things besides what he really _has _to pay attention to.

Big-Wig #2 comes up. Peter snaps a few photos, notices the crowd is about as enthusiastic as he is.

More babbling.

Eventually though, the crowd shifts, and Pete finds himself refocusing. An elbow attacks him from the right, and then the left, and then Peter realizes he's in the middle of a photographer smack-down, each vying for the best shot that they can get before someone's fat head gets in the way.

Peter ducks under a swinging camera, trying desperately to protect his own, and weaves through the huddled mass to relative safety. He finally gets to a point where he can actually see the hazy blue sky above him and slowly raises his head so he can see what the rush is all about.

Big-Wig #1 was boring.

Big-Wig #2 was the same.

Big-Wig #3, though, apparently has a charm that the other two didn't match.

Peter doesn't need to squint. Like the rest of the American middle-class, he already knows who this is about.

"...and I can easily say that Wayne Enterprises is incredibly flattered by the reception New York has given us today."

It's a deep baritone, ringing more strongly over the thrum of the crowd that the last two did. Peter recognizes the voice and the face and can't help but frown slightly in distaste.

Bruce Wayne.

In his younger years the man was like the American version of Prince Harry; tons of money and toys but having no real purpose in life but to go out and make a fool of himself. Granted, the man has matured over the last couple of years, but there is still that residue left from his earlier stints that has made him a target in the eyes of most of the middle and lower class and a fun topic for the tabloids.

Which, coincidentally, Peter happens to work for.

He takes three shots, hears the almost non-stop barrage of clicks behind him from fellow camera-comrades and then slips through the crowd, trying to get away.

Pete has an interview to do.

And he doesn't want to be late.

* * *

**A/N: **A filler chapter leading to what we could call action...I'm sorry it bounces between time as much as it did, but transition chapters tend to be a pain that way.

Many, many, many heartfelt thanks to **P'tfami **and **Spawn Guy**...they told me what I have been doing wrong and what to fix (among them, the proper spelling of Spider-Man), and as of now I'm _trying_ to get better. It's going to take time, but I'll get there.

Next up: Interview with Likely-Homeless-Man. And it's a little creepier than expected...


	5. Parker Guilt

The man that gets off the train in lower Manhattan at approximately 9:25PM looks more than ill. 

He looks deathly afraid.

But of course, this is New York, and you can always find people like that. The Big Apple may have the lowest homicide rate of the major U.S. cities, but that doesn't mean it's exempt from society's other evils.

And everyone knows this.

The man staggers through the station almost blindly, weaving in and out of crowds and invisible people that only he can see before finally coming across one of the bathrooms.

He runs into it.

And proceeds to bolt into a stall and hurl.

* * *

Later, we find that same man at one of the grimy bathroom sinks, hands braced at the sides and eyes intently focused on the mirror.

There's something unnerving about his gaze–slightly off-kilter, yet _there, _keeping track of what's in front of him and what is not.

He stares at himself for a few minutes, the only man in a tile room echoing with the hollow _plink _of a faucet that can't quite turn off, before clearing his throat and glancing down at his hands.

Something in them frightens him, and within seconds of looking down he turns on the sink, desperately fumbling before simply plunging his hands beneath the stream.

He scrubs frantically.

Red slowly drips down into the drain and spirals into pink before diluting entirely, an invisible smudge dripping down into a pipe and later nothingness.

The scrubbing stops.

The faucet is turned off more calmly than it was turned on.

Peter Parker looks at himself in the mirror again, though this time he brings a hand to the reflection and taps the surface.

"What," he whispers, trying to understand what he's seeing, trying to make sense of the blood dropping into the sink, "did you do?"

His reflection only blinks back at him in reply, but Peter hears something in his head that only answers the deepest fear.

_What did you?_

* * *

That little voice in the back of Pete's head finally answers his question when they get back on the train (his hands shaking and his heart thudding dully in his ears).

_You nearly killed a man, _the voice says solemnly, quiet and low.

This is not new. It has happened before, a guilt that gnaws at the bottom of Peter's stomach and writhes in his intestine.

But something happened differently today that didn't happen before.

Pete wasn't Spidey.

He was only Pete.

_It was in self-defense. _

The voice doesn't accept the excuse.

_And that justifies it?_

Pete shifts in his seat and tries to calm down, tries to regain what little sanity he has and

get it together.

_Piece the puzzle, Pete. Puzzle the piece._

He had known that it would be impossible to perform the interview in the first place, like sticking himself in the middle of a conversation between two people he didn't know and expecting them to greet him like a friend, but that was beyond his control.

He had done what Jameson had ordered him to do.

And in the process almost killed a man.

_But how? _

Peter frowns and brings the heels of his hands to his forehead, closing his eyes. His only train companion–an ebony-skinned mistress of Manhattan–sits at the opposite corner and only looks over at Peter with mild interest.

The beginning was simple enough: Peter went down near Bay Ridge, turned a corner and found himself face-to-face with a man who should've been in a looney bin.

Simple.

Then it got complicated.

The candidate for insanity was–in fact–the very man who Peter was supposed to interview. He'd somehow gotten word that he'd be discussing Mary's story with someone else, bumped into the thin, brown-haired man with a camera and came to the conclusion that this was Mary's substitute.

He was right.

But there was something in his stance, his posture and even how he spoke that made Peter think that something was off.

Maybe it was what he said, how he reacted to Peter's information.

_"Mary's sick," _Peter explained.

The man laughed. _"I bet she is."_

_"Do you mind if I...?_" Peter reached into his pocket, got out the recorder and instantly the weird smile on the man's face vanished, replaced by something cold and flat.

_"No recorder." _the man said. _"You're a reporter, right? Use some goddamn notebook or something. No recorder."_

Weird. Odd. But what had Peter been expecting? Someone probably had been cultivating the relationship with the interviewee for months and he was conducting their interview,

_"Do you want to stay here, or is there a certain place we can go to talk?" _God, he felt like a moron, trying to play a part he never was designated for.

The man stopped, and for a moment he looked pensive.

And then a smile came back on his face.

_"Yeah," _he said, _"lemme show you where me and Mary would go..."_

He started walking.

And foolishly Pete followed.

They rounded a few more corners–Peter tried to keep track of where they were, lest he got lost or something–before the man abruptly came to a halt in front of one of the many run-down buildings closer to the docks.

Peter looked up, noted the broken windows, the graffiti sprayed near the front door (some gang insignia Spidey knew but he didn't want to acknowledge) and the door itself (a few bullet holes, cracking metal and wood) and felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise.

_"Is this a joke?" _He asked, bringing his hands to grip his camera almost protectively.

The man looked at him, eyes shining, and shook his head.

_"No joke." _the man said seriously. _"Business as usual."_

Why didn't he just knock him out, right there? Why didn't he just suddenly balk and run off?

Why did he stay?

The train jerks to a stop and Peter's body sways with the movement, startling him out of his thinking and forcing him to raise his eyes from his hands.

The mistress gives him a sultry stare before stepping off. The lights overhead flicker dully.

And then Peter's alone, back in his brain.

It had to have been curiosity. Instinct was screaming that he run, get lost and go away, but he insisted on staying.

A train-wreck in front of his eyes. He had to know how it ended.

Peter followed that man into the building, eerie it may have been. He tried to maintain that professional persona, keep up the b.s. that he totally knew what he was doing and what the man was doing was totally normal, but it abruptly fell flat.

The interior of the place was ripped to shit, tile floors cracked, wood splintered and doors hanging off barely-there hinges.

There was furniture. Ugly, moldy, dusty furniture, but furniture nonetheless.

And there were rooms with stuff in them.

But Peter turned the corner, blindly following his guide and ignored that, instead focusing on the greasy hair that graced the back of the guy's head in front of him.

_"Here," _and the man began to slow down, turning another hallway and suddenly exposing a concrete floor with dim fluorescent lights buzzing.

_"I think this is where Mary left off last time."_

He turned towards one of the doors, a fireproof creature that probably used to grace a hotel, and gently nudged the door open.

Peter was tall, but the man was big and wide–a beast. He tried to look over his shoulder at what was there, in that dark room, but the man shouldered him to the side and went in first, turning on a light (Peter heard the pull of a cord) and disappearing around a corner.

There was an expulsion of breath.

The man spoke again, muffled behind the corner.

Peter took a step forward.

_"Yeah," _he said, voice sounding slightly strained. "_This is where we left off last time."_

It took seconds. Maybe even nanoseconds.

Peter Parker looked into a room full of metal containers and plastic boxes, heard hissing to his right and then turned.

Blink-of-the-eye evaluation.

Peter became Spider-Man.

And the man that was his guide became a monster.

It was only his reflexes that saved him from the needle–the man had abruptly swung back from the corner, clenching in his right hand a hypodermic and Peter simply _reacted_, throwing himself backwards and spinning as the man flew by.

Time slowed and Peter tried to reason with himself.

He had two options, and he could only use one.

No Spidey. Not here, not now.

He could try to run away; a thirty-something male caught in a dangerous situation who went to his instinct and fled. It made sense, was reasonable–and Peter knew he was much faster than his guide.

But it was too late. He was thinking too much. The man was swinging back and this time the arms were faster, stronger.

Peter ducked, hearing the _whoosh _of the arm over his head, before standing and reaching out with his right hand, grabbing the man's collar. The left hooked through the forearm before clenching on the back of the man's upper arm, and Peter pulled hard, forcing the elbow into a breaking positionas he tried to get the grip loose on the hypodermic.

The man thrashed–Jesus, he was strong, stronger than what an ordinary guy should've been–and suddenly struck out with his foot, trying to break the tenuous balance Peter had to make him fall.

It almost worked.

Almost.

But Peter moved backwards with the move, following the foot with his own. Big Man fell, and Peter–unwittingly caught in his own trip, still trying to resist becoming Spidey (he couldn't do that here, not now)–fell with him.

The lock broke. Peter couldn't hold it if he wanted to keep himself away from the needle.

They both rolled–Peter trying to get to the door, towards freedom, the Big Man towards something else–and then Pete was on his feet, backing away.

_"Listen, Mister," _and he was playing his role well, the frightened yuppie who didn't want to get his ass kicked, "_I–"_

Big Man was back in a speed that could've been called dizzying.

And the hypodermic was still there.

_"You're gonna die, kid." _It was simply delivered as the man brought himself into a crouch. _"That's it."_

He rushed him. A blur that Pete only saw from metas, mutants and other freaks of the like suddenly came up from the ground and just like that, the needle was in his palm.

No time to duck, retaliate, protect himself.

He had a four-inch long needle embedded in his palm, and a leering man depressing the plunger.

Something began to trickle through Parker's veins.

And then the facade broke.

He vanished.

With a roar, Peter swung upwards, letting loose on the muscles that had longed to be released and backhanding the man's face.

Blood splattered. There was a grunt on the man's part, surprise as he tried to tighten the grip on the needle burrowed in Parker's hand. The pain was searing, the needle a hook in Peter's muscles, his nerves, but he ignored it, instead moving closer to Big Man and backhanding again.

More blood. The human might have been strong but he was dealing with a different creature.

Peter took a step inwards--now moving between the man's body and his arm–and brought his left arm under the guy's right elbow.

His impaled hand acted accordingly, jerking backwards slightly before shoving _down_, hard, on the hand that was clenched on the needle.

The elbow broke.

And the man fell, screaming.

Peter glanced at his hand, the hypodermic obscenely lodged into his palm, before reaching down and yanking the needle out.

Glass sprayed. The needle continued to burn him after leaving.

Big Man wasn't so big now, wheezing as he fought to get back to his feet. Peter didn't give him the chance to get back and took the step forward, kicking the man in the chest.

He went back down.

And Peter was at his neck, choking.

_"Why?" _Peter snarled.

Something told him that it wasn't him talking, that this was all wrong).

The man gasped, wheezing, brought his hands to Peter's iron ones and tried to break the grip.

Peter squeezed harder, the message clear: _I'm stronger than you, it won't work that way. _

Another snarl, this time accompanied by a shake. _"Why?"_

The man shifted, breathing high, before he tried to speak.

_"She knew too much," _he gasped.

Mary. A coworker he knew nothing about except that she was probably more than sick.

_"And me?" _he asked, still speaking in that weird way, sounding harsh and croaky.

The man's mouth opened and closed, a fish out of water.

_"No interview," _he said_. "Too many questions."_

The rational part of Peter, the one that had been hiding behind the medula oblongata, peeked out suddenly and frowned.

The man's speech was garbled...confusing.

And then it hit.

_He's a druggie, you're a druggie..._

Peter glanced down at the hands that were trying to pry his off the man's throat and observed the wrists.

An angry red mark was showing itself just on the underside of the radial.

_We're all druggies!_

Shit. He shot himself up before attacking Peter.

And then he shot Peter up.

The focus turned. Peter relaxed his grip just slightly before speaking again.

_"What did you give me?" _

The man stopped wheezing, stopped breathing, and for one terrified instant Peter's brain returned to him screaming _You killed him. _

But then the man gasped, chest jerking, and he began to laugh.

A choking, wheezing, dirty sound, but the man--close to unconsciousness, bleeding profusely and right arm broken–began to laugh.

It was unnerving.

Too unnerving.

The thing masquerading as Peter didn't like it.

The pressure that he had reined back on he released, squeezing down and smothering the laughter in the man's throat. Peter vaguely heard the man mouth something that sounded like an 's' but he ignored it.

More squeezing.

The guy was still laughing.

The thing playing Pete abruptly jerked the man's neck up, and then brutally snapped back down.

Big Man's head hit the concrete.

And then there was no more laughing.

* * *

Blood is seeping through the cloth that Pete wrapped his hand in and he's trying not to notice, trying to force himself not to go back into that room and hear the _thud _as that man's head hit the concrete.

He knows he didn't kill him. There was a definitive pulse and definitive breathing.

But he _did _leave him there.

The train stops again, shuddering and wheezing as it starts to get tired, the night wearing down on it, and Peter picks his head up again.

A glance at the station sign, at the station itself.

Peter picks himself up slowly, flexing his hand, and stands.

He walks out of the doors, forces himself to go up the stairs and out into the New York night and takes the corner to get home.

Peter walks up six more flights of stairs, fumbles painfully for the key in his pocket and then pushes the door open with his knee.

The flat is silent. Still no M.J.

He doesn't know if he should be grateful or start breaking down.

He stands there, at the threshold, for a long moment, and simply closes his eyes, trying to figure out what he's going to do now and how he's going to explain this.

The eyes open.

Peter walks over to the bureau (shoved over in a corner of the tiny living room, they didn't have any other place for it when they first moved in) and opens the top drawer. A small leather book, old and battle-weary looks up at him, and him down at it, before Pete gingerly takes out the book and thumbs through the pages, searching.

Malter, Manning...

Murdock.

He'd grin if he wasn't scared shitless at himself.

Pete picks up the phone lying nearby and dials the number. The phone rings four times–he's glad that the guy doesn't answer, maybe make this easier to explain–before the beep of the message machine makes itself heard.

Pete makes the message simple, from one average-Joe vigilante to another. In another few minutes, he'll probably call M.J.--more than 1,000 miles away in god-forsaken Montana, visiting her cousin twice-removed or something--and confess to her, brokenly, that something has gone terribly wrong.

As it is, he tries to focus on the present.

"I have a problem."

Peter hangs up.

* * *

**A/N: **Truth be told, I was at a loss for more than two weeks on how to continue with this story, and when it finally came down to the point where I _needed _to do something to get plot moving, I finally just decided on this.

I personally don't like it, I think it's woefully out of character and I think that I need to re-evaluate where I'm going with this crossover, but ultimately it's up to you guys to decide whether or not this turn of events is okay.

And if it's in the proper tense. ;)

Many thanks to **Gollum's Fish** and **P'tfami **for their reviews and P'tfami's informing that I had written the chapter previous to this one without any tense errors. There was much rejoicing. :) Let's see if the same goes for this one, though...


	6. Out of the Element

The Bat should be thinking on many more serious things when he climbs up one of the old brownstones near downtown. 

Instead, all that comes to mind when his hand rests itself on top of an aged gargoyle's head is: g_od, this place is clean. _

Truth be told, it's probably a little bit of an exaggeration–smog embraces New York in a bear hug that can never be broken–but when Bruce comes from Gotham to here, he sees such a substantial change in garbage that he almost thinks the place is pure.

New York is an enigma to Bruce; it has the same blue-blood roots that put Gotham on the map but–unlike Gotham–it hasn't spiraled down into chaos.

Yeah, Prohibition was nightmare, and the rickety seventies weren't friendly, either, but it isn't nearly as...destructive...as the Bat's hometown.

And a small part of Bruce can't help but wonder why.

Maybe it's location.

Maybe it's ethnic composition.

Maybe it's just...history.

_Forget it_, the Bat finally growls at him. _It won't change Gotham for you. _

Sad but true.

And he has other things he should probably be focusing on–namely, the Sight.

The Bat turns to the side, glancing over towards Broadway and Canal and the hurried traffic that flows beneath it, and frowns.

He's been to New York on many occasions but they were all as Bruce Wayne, and though he knows that he could memorize the city in an hour given a definitive map, knowing _where _he is isn't a problem.

It's knowing where the crime _is. _

Harsh reality?

The Bat is a newcomer.

And he's not used to it.

It's almost embarrassing to admit that to himself–to confess that he doesn't actually know where the scumbags of the city are hiding. He's been in his comfort zone for so long, in a city where he just _knows _where the enemy lurks that it's frightening to have to be in an area where he doesn't have a clue about his prey.

Well, correct that: he understands _what _he's looking for, but it's not Gotham.

And that makes everything much, much harder.

Another quick scan down at the streets below. Bruce notes (with some disappointment) that he can't really spot anyone who fits his scumbag criteria. There are the winos, yes, and a few of the druggies, but they're not exactly...right.

He studied the side-effects of the Sight on one or two lab mice that he managed to slip out of Wayne Industries. Alfred had objected, but at the look Bruce gave him (and the comment: "would you rather me try it first?") quieted down.

It was important he knew what he was dealing with. Both of them understood that.

The first injection made many things frightfully clear: aggressive behaviors that previously were nonexistent became dangerously prominent. Seconds within dosing the first mouse, Bruce had to let go of it in order to avoid being bitten

It became obvious only later (after the first mouse died, writhing, in its cage)that muscle

mass also increased substantially. He performed an autopsy almost immediately after Mouse No.

1 expired, and learned rather quickly why it had died in such agony; the muscle tissue had grown so disproportionally out of shape that it _crushed _the bones that tried to hold it, essentially disintegrating the animal from the inside out.

. Though he had thought that what he was giving the mice–and what was being moved around Gotham like a village bike–was originally Venom, later tests proved him wrong.

It was something different.

Something worse.

Barbara tried to help him for the first few days, but eventually gave up, leaving Bruce on his own as he continuously tried to nail the chemical composition and peg ways to block receptors from reacting to the drug. He used every chemistry book he had, burrowed through his old ones left from college and even scanned through Wayne Industry's prototype substances for a match.

But there was nothing, or, in the words of Barbara: "There's squat, B."

That was worrying. If Wayne Industries didn't have it, if old and new chemistry books knew nothing of it and if Bruce's own mighty chemical database didn't recognize it, then it was something very bad.

Men fear what they don't understand. Though Bruce knows damn well what the drug does to people and how it interacts with the receptors and hormones and the body, he doesn't know of its composition.

And that makes him nervous.

Very, very nervous.

No composition, no cure.

No cure equals problems. Essentially Bruce has a poison on his hands and no real way of fighting back. If he happens to be injected...

No. He doesn't want to consider that. Not now.

A honk from below pulls him out of his reverie, turning attention back to the street below. The Bat shifts on his perch, moving for a different angle, and tries to rethink where he could find his prey.

It's back to square one for him–Barbara has temporarily given up her status as the Oracle for a trip to Metropolis, and he no longer can rely as strongly on her technological prowess as before. He's only got instinct, some knowledge of the side-effects of the Sight, a couple of gadgets and a very big brain to help him out.

It'll have to do.

First thing's first: the Bat needs to familiarize himself with New York–specifically, New York's vermin.

It's simple enough; jump enough rooftops and scum will be found that look vaguely reminiscent of Gotham.

Bruce slowly gets to his feet, rolling his neck and relaxing at the familiar crack of vertebrae. He moves away from the gargoyle and carefully balances on one of the ledges before looking out and reaching for the grapple-gun.

Aim, shoot, jump.

At least some aspects of New York are familiar to what he knows.

* * *

The way the girl moves is what tips him off first.

Two hours he's been prowling the rooftops of New York, careful to avoid being seen and always on the lookout for New York's vigilantes (he doesn't like people trespassing on his turf–he has a feeling New Yorkers probably feel the same).

But finally, after many an hour of watching and waiting and he–at long last–sees something that the Bat tells him is very important.

It's a girl, or, more specifically, how she moves–arm wrapped around a big moose maybe twice her size–that makes alarm bells ring.

He goes through what she could and could not be, what the outfit says about her life and what it refuses to let the Bat in on.

Nice stilettos. Certainly not cheap. The outfit, too, reeks of something higher class. But her posture and attitude tell Bruce that's she probably more of the paid women of society than of the wealthy.

Prostitute.

Hmm. Bruce Wayne would be amused.

The Bat only gets worried.

Her stance is slightly...off. Not the walk of a drunk or a coke addict–inebriated, unfocused and unstable.

No, this girl walks like a predator, careful, calculating and ready for attack. She may look up at her enormous escort and smile sweetly, may lean into him with the low-cut blouse and act dumb, but the walk has already given her away.

He's seen this before, and he already knows what it is.

The Sight.

It was bad enough when the drug dug its claws into the poor and destitute but now that there are those on higher planes with it...

Not good. Very, very bad.

They're turning a corner now. Bruce quickly jumps an alley and tries to get higher, to a better place where he can watch this and not have to move. He needs to know where they're going, but he can't scare them as the Bat.

...not yet, anyway.

Another turn, this time to a darker place. Bruce isn't exactly surprised at how quickly a well-lit street can manage to wind off into a dangerous, dim one, but the quickness that this happens with still manages to throw him off a little bit.

He's not in Gotham; he needs to keep remembering that.

(Of course, that didn't stop him in Metropolis, Central City, and even Chicago, but New York is somehow different–maybe because he actually likes it.)

The guy the girl's clinging to hasn't seemed to notice the change in scenery–either that or he doesn't care. He stands straighter, takes a more dominant stance, but otherwise there's nothing signaling that he's feeling threatened by his location.

They're talking, now. He can read lips when he's standing still, but he's moving and can't exactly focus enough to make things out. Night vision and infrared can only go so far before motions become indistinguishable.

So he has to get closer. Close enough for the range in his ears to pick up what they're saying.

Bruce glances across the street, noting the fire escape, and adjusts the grapple gun for position.

There's a dull thud as the anchor makes contact with the rusty metal and attaches, but amid the night sounds of city with more than 8 million inhabitants Bruce knows that it's probably going to be unnoticed. Things go bump in the night all the time. His grapple gun should be no different.

Bruce flexes his legs, diving off the ledge. For that blink-of-an-eye second where his stomach drops and he gets the sensation that he's flyinghe turns his attention away from the woman and her escort and instead braces himself for the fire escape. The feet move up, and Bruce relaxes enough for the landing.

But something goes wrong.

He feels the tension between the rope and his arms abruptly go slack when he's almost through with the arc. The clean sweep that he had towards the fire escape suddenly gets messy, and he's dropping, falling.

Bruce hits metal awkwardly with a bang. Legs slam sideways into rusty steel, and pain reverberates up into his body. Flailing wildly, Bruce lets go of the grapple and lunges upward, trying to grab onto the fire escape.

He latches on, but not before he hears the clatter of the grapple gun hit the cement six stories below.

The Bat tells him to keep moving.

_Ignore it. _

One hand, two. Bruce pulls himself up and over the top of the railing, falling into a crouch on the stairs and stealing a quick glance down at the sidewalk.

The gun still lies there, unbroken but not exactly in easy reach.

And the rope that was supposed to hold Bruce?

He looks up, craning his neck.

The anchor's still there, lodged into the side of the fire escape.

But the rope that is supposed to be attached is loose, swinging lamely from the anchor like a misshapen, forgotten tail.

It's been cut.

Rational Bat already realizes that this was very intentional foul-play at its worst, meant to kill, maim or distract him.

He rises from the crouch, moving out slightly to look down the street.

The girl and her man are gone.

Bruce leans back out of sight, stooping down and looking towards his gun lying on the ground.

He's getting lazy. That edge that Gotham forces him to keep up isn't the same here, and he's running blind.

Not fun. Very frustrating.

Bruce shakes himself off, standing slowly and looking out again at the dimly lit, nearly deserted street.

They distracted him, but that doesn't mean they're going to get rid of him easily–when there's a will, there's a way, and Bruce is sure as hell determined. It's the only reason he's been around this long.

_So find them. _

He didn't leave a tracker on the girl, instead insisting on tailing (maybe to save his ass, perhaps to make sure that if vigilantes got their hands on his prey, they wouldn't notice that someone had already called dibs), but that doesn't mean that Bruce isn't prepared.

A tap at the side of the cowl.

The electronics inside beep.

**Thermal sensors engaged.**

And then the world dissolves into a plethora of blues, greens, reds and yellows.

Yes, old-fashioned detective skills have their moments, but technology is an incredible thing. It's saved Bruce's life more than a few times, and though 'old-school' methods certainly work, the electronic-drenched era in which he lives now doesn't have time for what functioned well twenty years ago.

A quick scan already tells Bruce that there are more people lurking in the projects near his position than he originally thought. There's the couple three floors up in the next building, sitting on what Bruce assumes to be a couch, watching t.v. The five kids in the room next to them, and the young mother and her baby the floor above them.

_All nice things, _the Bat tells him impatiently, _but not what we're looking for. _

True.

_Refocus, reconnect. _

The woman (with heels) was about 5'8". Her escort probably weighed 260 pounds, and stood at about 6'4.

Big boy. Small girl.

Bruce turns his head, slowly scanning down the street and trying to focus on the corner to the right. He's about to turn his attention elsewhere when something catches. At first it's almost indistinguishable–hidden behind brick, heaters and idling cars--but when Bruce narrows his eyes to focus, he suddenly sees _them, _with the woman trying to shepherd the man into the grungy, beat-up lobby of some long-abandoned hotel.

A small part of him wants to be pleased, but the Bat is wary. He found them too quickly, and he still has to consider that no more than two minutes ago he had his rope–his lifeline–cut.

Someone wants him dead, and this could be a trap.

Another gamble.

He's going to take the risk and go for them. He's close now, and in no time at all the sun will be up. He has to get this done soon if he wants to be that much closer to the source.

Bruce carefully looks around the street and up towards where his rope had been hanging before perching himself up on the railing.

He could take the stairs, but that would make too much noise (besides what he's already made) and possibly wake the people in the building next to him.

And no, he's not going to jump six stories. Bruce is many things, but he's not Superman.

Then it's official.

Fall a floor, grab a railing. If it's done properly, the pain felt in the shoulders and arms is minimal

If it's done incorrectly...

Broken and dislocated bones. Not something he wants to deal with.

_So get it done properly so we can get going. There isn't any _time.

No, there isn't.

Bruce readjusts the thermals, takes a look over at the dilapidated building where his targets pace restlessly, and glances over at the apartment next to him.

Clear. For the time being.

_Get going. _

The first two are the rockiest–Bruce isn't afraid of heights but his legs are still reeling from their head-on collision with hard steel.

The next two are easier, and even though age quietly pulls at his joints, informing him that _you're not twenty-four anymore, Bruce_, the metal and his hands meet uneventfully.

It's at the second story that Bruce looks over again, sees his prey moving and abandons the rails, simply dropping and rolling as he hits the ground.

The grapple's picked up. Bruce–feeling vulnerable and exposed–drops back into an alley and examines the gun.

Good condition. It simply needs a new line.

...which he has in his belt.

_Sure you want to use it? _The Bat asks him. _Make yourself an easy target again?_

He looks down at the grapple, shoots a look at the building above him, and then–slowly, reluctantly–tucks the gun back into its respective slot.

He hates it when the Bat is right.

_You can thank me later, _the Bat informs him. _Now go. _

Bruce turns on his heel and starts to head deeper into the alley. The cape brushes over trash and flaps in a faint wind that whistles through the corridors as he runs, but after a left, and then another right, he realizes that he doesn't need to go any further.

He's found them.

Camped out beyond the metal door the Bat stands in front of, they sit in a nearby room with what can only be assumed to be drugs.

They're clueless to his presence, and this gives him two options.

The Bat can storm in, trap them where they stand and scare the shit out of them...but there's always that frightening possibility of a trap inside. And he doesn't know the layout of this building.

Or he can wait out here, hanging above in the fire escape. Eventually they'll come out this door (it's their closest exit), drugged to a place that Bruce has no interest in ever going to and completely unprepared for a drop-in from the out-of-city Bat. He's in a space that he's somewhat familiar with, and there are no tight spaces for him to have to fight out of.

Outside it is, then.

Noise pulls him out of his reverie, and quickly, not even thinking, Bruce snaps his head over to the door and jerks the gun out of his belt, aiming for the fire escape above the door.

He can risk detection by them or risk his life getting pulled to a second story.

He'd rather risk his life; they're getting up far quicker than he expected and if there's anything Bruce doesn't want to screw over it's the fact that no one knows he's in New York as the Bat.

The door clicks, thuds, and shifts as the man behind it tries to understand that it is, in fact, push (not pull) that will get him out of the ex-hotel before abruptly the metal swings out with a bang, taking out a chunk of the brick along the way.

_Normal people do not possess that strength, _the Bat says quietly. Bruce scowls as he realizes what this means to him.

Bruce could take the escort as a normal human being, but the stakes have changed. His somewhat built six-foot moose is now under the influence of a adrenaline inducing, muscle-growing, reflex-quickening drug, something that essentially makes him a meta for two hours.

"–aren't you strong?"

"Like Superman, baby."

The Bat shakes Bruce back, forcing him to look down as the woman weaves through the threshold and staggers out into the alley, laughing at the damage done to the wall and the door. She pauses for a moment, losing that ditzy stance for one second as she glances upwards, eyes scanning where Bruce might've been if he hadn't pressed his back towards the wall, before turning towards the door.

"It's great, isn't it?"

Bruce tenses, silently reaching for his belt again as he hears the man's voice from within the building.

"Yes." the man says.

And then he steps out from the building into the alley.

Maybe he hears Bruce, maybe he doesn't, but the moose slowly cranes his head up and looks above him at the fire escape for a long hard moment.

The Bat doesn't give him any longer. Two darts, combining to pack enough of a punch to tranquilize an elephant for a day, suddenly shoot from above and score directly into the man's neck.

There's a strained gurgle, unfortunately loud enough to echo across the alley, and then a thud.

The girl hears the gurgle (the Bat knows this) but in the darkness of the alley isn't alarmed until she hears that thump.

She spins around.

And finds herself face-to-face with the Bat.

Bruce is used to only a few things when it comes to scaring the shit out of criminals.

Usually there's fear and recognition, the mouth open in a silent echo of his name _the Bat _and a swear word, and a step backwards _away _from him.

Occasionally, there's no swear word, a mouthing of his name and a half-hearted (who are they kidding, trying to take down _the _Bat?) uppercut.

But very rarely is there laughter.

Very, very, rarely.

Except maybe now.

The woman, high on a drug that the Bat wishes never came to Gotham and then New York, starts to laugh at him. She doesn't get wide-eyed in fear (surprise yes, fear no), doesn't mouth his name or break out running.

She laughs at him.

"What the fuck–" and the Bat notices her hand move towards her pocket (_distracting him, well, that's not something he sees from druggies ever y day...)_"_–_are _you?_"

He grabs the hand before it reaches the pocket and pinches down hard on the radial nerve, essentially paralyzing the wrist and stopping whatever action she had halfway through her head. The laughter suddenly dies in the girl's throat, and suddenly a fear that Bruce is more familiar with enters her eyes.

The body's tensing to the fight or flight mode, but at this point the girl is strong enough that such an idea would be bad.

Bruce can't give her time to reconsider her options. Not now, in a city he's not used to with variables that shouldn't exist.

He slams her hard up against the wall and transforms into _the _Bat, monstrous horns and impenetrable skin and low, seething rage.

"Who" (again: particular emphasis on the word because it is invaluable to him at this point) "are you running to?"

Lingo is very important. Gotham druggies know what he's asking.

Hopefully, New York hoodlums will, too.

No verbal answer, but the girl writhes and tries to bring a foot up to kick him.

It hurts, but not enough to loosen the Bat's grip. A hand goes up and Bruce pushes down _hard _on the ulna.

The girl's struggle lessens as pain overrides the idea to attack him–and for Bruce the trick is not strength but distraction.

"Who?" he asks again.

He's still pinching the nerve.

"–Blake!" she spits out suddenly.

"First name?" He relents just enough pressure on the nerve to let her know that talking will end this.

She shakes violently. "Has none. Called Blake."

"Where?"

Something is rapidly happening to the girl.

She's fading fast. Bruce tells the Bat that it's due more to what she's just consumed than anything he's done in the last fifteen (sixteen, now) seconds.

"Docks." she says after a moment.

"Which ones?"

The eyes are rolling back in the head, and spit's coming out of the mouth. Alarmed, the Bat releases the elbow complete and goes back a grip on the upper arm.

Bruce recognizes what's happening. He's dreading this but he knows that he has an overdose on his hands.

The Bat tells him that that's not a good enough reason to stop.

Not yet.

"Which docks?"

The words barely sound human when they come out, but he understands them enough.

"Bay Ridge." the girl gasps.

And then suddenly she goes still.

Silence fills the alley. Bruce blinks, unnerved by the quickness to which she collapsed, and lets go of his grip on the girl's arms.

He doesn't hear breathing.

And he doesn't feel a heartbeat.

_Shit. _

The Bat only voices what he doesn't want to hear.

_She's dead._

* * *

He hears the cough of what he assumes to be a grapple and the sound of bodies following after it from his corner of observation (a part of him laughs–oh yeah, observation)and sits for a moment absolutely entranced. 

A second later (after he's sure what he 'saw' is really gone and won't be coming back) he gets closer to the scene of action, and climbs down to the ground.

He notes the man slumped in front of the door, smells the chemicals on the darts in the guy's neck and whistles appreciatively.

He notes the dent in the brick wall, the metal door that probably doesn't have a lot of life left after it's little battle with the unconscious lump in front of it and bites his lip.

And then Matt Murdock smells death in the air (new death–a heartbeat that just stilled and a body that just stopped breathing) and freezes.

"Shit." he says.

* * *

**A/N: **Kiddies, can you say mindless-stupid-rant-that-didn't-know-where-it-was-going? Because that certainly described this chapter for me. It was too long, too verbose and I'm still not very sure where it's going.

At this time, I guess it'll have to do. And that's okay. There's always the next chapter that can be made into a fantastic masterpiece. :)

Oh, and here are a few things:

For **P'tfami**, here is that timeline you so politely requested a few chapters back and I rudely forgot to get for you:

I wasn't quite sure as to the time when I started, but now that I've actually bought myself some comics and read through some wiki articles enough to know them like the back of my hand it's kinda coming together. In short: this takes place before _No Man's Land_ and after _Hush_. I wanna say that Tim Drake is Bird Boy and hasn't moved on to create the Teen Titans, Barbara hasn't given up her status as Oracle for good, and Dick still acts as as the protector of Bludhaven and periodically Gotham.

I hope that's an okay timeline. If not, feel free to ask questions.

Oh, and many thanks to **Gollum's Fish **and **Shinobi Lioness **(who reviewed earlier but was forgotten when I gave thanks--sorry about that) for their reviews. I'm really pleased that you guys like the story--it certainly helps me stagger through it. :)

Well, tell me what you think. Please.


	7. I'm on Vacation

**A/N:**Ahhh!! The prodigal daughter returns!!

I'm sorry. I got distracted with other endeavors and kinda abandoned my crossover piece de resistance. This chapter isn't saying much, but I owe most of the ideas largely to **SpawnGuy, **who suggested that I throw in some more characters here and there, just to spice things up.

Good idea. Thank you much.

And a big cyber-hug (or high-five, whatever you're more comfortable with) to** Super Tinfoil Man Part 2 **(odd name, by the way), **TDG3RD, **and my pseudo-beta **SpawnGuy. **Your reviews are so revered I put them on a pedastal and read them for a couple of days to make my ego happy.

Thanks, as always. And enjoy the chapter. :)

* * *

Barbara loves Metropolis. 

She would never tell Bruce this (because they all know he can't stand this town – can't stand the cleanliness and cheeriness of it) but every single time Barbara comes here it's like the curtains have been lifted and a hallelujah chorus starts up.

The job will follow Barbara wherever she goes – that's a given – but today that reality doesn't even really bother her. She's on vacation. She's in a pretty place.

And at this moment in time, there's nothing that can fuck up Barbara's day --

"...That'll be twenty-nine seventy-six, ma'am."

– except maybe eye-gouging prices.

Barbara restrains from wincing full-out as she reaches into her purse for the money, giving a polite smile to the man behind the counter and thumbing through the black-hole that calls itself her bag.

One minute, two angry grunts and pained smiles later, she has the cash (always cash, no credit-cards or traceable creatures for Barb when she's out of city) on the counter and her bag of souvenirs in hand.

The clerk gives her another smile and thanks her. Barbara does the same before spinning around and wheeling out through the door, nodding to the couple that politely stands aside for her to get through.

It should be a very uneventful and tourist-y experience for Barb today; she has a map of the city laid out in her flat (the apartment is courtesy of Wayne Enterprises: Metropolis) and little thumb-tacks marking her desired destinations. Dad should be here in about an hour to meet her down near Midlane, and later they'll have dinner with the cousins who live out in Suburbia.

Barbara smiles as the sun warms her face and a young couple with two giggling toddlers race by. The parents give her a happy, carefree look and though Barb only wishes she could mirror the same expression on her own face, but she does nod. And say good-morning

They respond in kind, and yet again, Barbara is hit by a, "god, I love this place" feeling.

Sure, Gotham is her homeland, her turf and her birthplace, but there is something hugely refreshing about being in a city where people make eye-contact and (instead of pulling out a knife/threatening/leering/frowning) say hello, or smile with their teeth, or don't stare at Barbara in the wheelchair with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

A part of Barb will always be in Gotham, but Metropolis certainly has her by the hand and won't let go.

This thought keeps running through her head (though happily, un-winded and muscles not burning from the workout) as she goes back to the flat and wheels her way to the elevator, waiting. It takes a break when she pushes her way into the elevator and suddenly she's looking at Gothamites again – with their hard, flinty eyes and suspicious gazes – but when she lands on her floor and pauses in the hallway, the thought is back again, cheerfully jogging its brainy-lungs out.

Barbara rests her thumb on the fingerprint scanner and tenses as the light flashes green. She struggles with the door for a minute, bumping her wheels on the frame and clipping the sides.

And then she remembers.

_It's automatic. Press the button._

Barbara forgets: the flat is decked out and they even have a handicap door for her. There's really no need for her to fight her way through a door (pushing and shoving and angrily cursing under her breath), because people already knew that they would have a gimp in their midst and made the necessary adjustments.

It angers Barbara (to always be a pain to people, to block the way and not be able to do nearly as many things as she used to) but at the same time she's grateful.

Pride's a good thing, but it is incredibly important to know when to back down.

Barbara does this as she gingerly wheels her way through the automatic door and comes to a stop on the wood floor, watching the light stream in from outside.

It's beautiful. It's gorgeous. It's –

"Helluva lot prettier than Gotham, isn't it?"

She can't help it. The voice coming from nowhere combined with the fact that she was just very vulnerable and completely caught unawares combines into a muffled shriek.

The voice laughs.

And then suddenly materializes into Dick, rising up from the living room sofa with a good-sized bruise over his left eye.

He'd been laying on the couch the entire time. Just sitting there, in her flat, beyond her view, waiting for her to wheel in so he could scare the shit out of her.

Barbara's not in the mood to physically come over there and whack him, so she does the next best thing and glares.

He takes it in kind, smiling broadly (and what a great, if lopsided smile it is) and walking over to greet her, a hand held out in a placating gesture.

Barbara continues to glare, and clutches her sticks (hidden underneath her seat, no one knows about them except, you know, the Bat Clan) at her side openly.

It's a warning to Bird-boy. If he's smart, he'll take it.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, voice low.

Dick notices the threat, wisely taking two (he should take three) steps back and trying to ooze as much charm as possible.

"I thought I'd just drop by and say hello, all-seeing one," he says as he discreetly moves backwards.

Barb doesn't buy it. And they both know that.

"Mine ears detect bullshit, Bird-Boy." she says, nudging the wheel forward four centimeters and fingering the sticks. "Maybe you should try again."

Mexican stand-off of the eyes. Blue meets blue and neither are willing to back down.

Finally, though:

"Shit."

Dick takes another step backwards and collapses awkwardly onto the couch, face folded into anxiety and body posture nervous.

Barbara pursues, but she does so carefully, wheeling around to a position where she can see him and have easy access to the knives in the coffee table.

And then waits.

"I need help," Dick says after a moment's pause.

"I'm on vacation," Barb replies. "Clearly, we are at an impasse."

His brow furrows, set-off by this comment, and then Dick opens his mouth to speak.

Barbara cuts him off before a word can even leave his lips.

"Look, I'm on vacation. What ever shit you've gotten yourself into – "

"I got the shit beat _out _of me, Babs dearest." Dick interrupts her, and then suddenly Barb notices not only the bruise on his eye, but the scratches and cuts trailing up and down his face and neck and probably under his shirt.

The rage she felt a second ago vanishes.

"What happened?"

He cringes.

"A mugging went totally bad."

She instantly thinks superhuman baddie from hell.

"Meta?"

He shakes his head.

"No. Just your average-Joe who somehow received meta speed and reflexes."

In that split-moment realization Barbara understands that they're all connected. What she thought was just in Gotham suddenly is in New York. And what she thought was just in New York is suddenly in Bludhaven. And what she thought was just in Bludhaven probably is _just _in Metropolis and _oh, god _she's getting to old for this shi –

Dick coughs.

Loudly.

Barb glares at him.

"Um..." and then Dick shifts on the sofa, popping his neck and exhaling audibly, "where's Bruce?"

The sticks roll out from under her seat and clatter to the floor.

"Damn," Barbara Gordon says.


End file.
